We're back home.
Except, things aren't like they used to be. Something has changed.
Maybe it's because, while you're dying, I am too.
Your first treatment is in ten minutes. They say you'll need to go to the hospital every second week. They also say it'll keep you alive for as long as possible.
But nothing can change the fact that you'll be leaving me in less than six months.
I can't say I know for sure what the future holds for us.
But I have a feeling the short time we have left together will be spent at the hospital.
No more spontaneous trips to Hawaii. No more coffee dates.
No going back to the way things were, back when we still had two perfectly healthy hearts between the two of us. Now, my heart beats for the two of us.
It's only a matter of time before it loses its hold on your withering heartstrings.
The doctor calls your name, and you stand up. Gripping my hand like it's the only thing saving you from drowning, you follow the doctor into a plain, white room.
We take a seat next to each other. The doctor begins explaining how the treatment will help you, and what will happen if it doesn't.
Not once do you let go of my hand.
I don't think it's because you don't want to.
It's because you can't.
Because you know that. as soon as you let go of my hand, you'll also be letting go of the life we have now.
The doctor will take you away and hook you into the machines you'll spend the rest of your life with. The machines that will filter the chemicals into your body, at the same time they drain out all the life you have left.
But you need to let go.
We need to let go.
